wind whipped the last leaves across the sallow fields. The frantically threshing branches of the trees tangled like antlers. Rannaldini, the wily old buck, was despatching the young pretender into the forest. He never should have let Kitty go. It was his fault. If he’d been able to keep his hands off her in public they’d have got away with it. He was terrified of Rannaldini’s vengeance and for a sickening moment over the wind and rain thought he could hear the punishment bell tolling at Valhalla, then realized it was only the church clock striking twelve. It seemed like midnight. How could he get through the rest of his life?
The cottage smelt damp and sour. The doormat was covered in letters, mostly brown envelopes. In the fridge he found a half-eaten pheasant crawling with maggots and, shuddering, threw it in the bin. Pouring himself the dregs of a bottle of vodka he topped it with tonic as flat as his life and only bothered to open three letters, each of which plunged him into deeper despair.
The first was from the vet saying he was 99 per cent sure Arthur had contracted navicular disease which meant he was a write-off for racing.
‘Oh, poor darling Arthur.’ But Lysander couldn’t really absorb such a bodyblow in his present shell-shocked condition. The second letter didn’t need a stamp. Marigold wrote:
Rain was sweeping down the valley like a ghost cavalry charge. Lysander started to shake; all his old insecurities came hurtling back. He had lost his true love. If he moved out of the cottage, where would all the animals and, hopefully, Kitty, live? Poor Marigold, too — going up the spout. He’d had a lot of money from her. His trembling hand had great difficulty in writing her a cheque for thirty thousand pounds. He didn’t want to be paid a bean for saving Kitty’s marriage. He’d better ring his bank sometime and find out how much he’d got left. Or perhaps Ferdie could do that for him. He must ring up and get the dogs back and talk of the devil, here was a letter from Ferdie. How odd, Ferdie never wrote letters and his handwriting on the envelope looked really crazy.
‘Oh God,’ whispered Lysander; he read on:
Lysander was distraught. Poor darling, little Maggie, the most adorable dog in the world, who’d given him nothing but love, starving herself to death, and sweet darling Kitty, and Ferdie, his dearest friend, whom he’d totally taken for granted. How could he have behaved so appallingly to all of them? Shivering, he threw himself down on the damp grey sheets and sobbed himself to sleep. Waking two hours later, the light was already fading and he felt so desolate he dialled Valhalla even though he’d promised not to. At first he thought Kitty was a recording machine, her voice was so high, stilted and unnatural.
‘I can’t see you any more.’
‘I can’t live without you,’ he jibbered in panic, ‘and Maggie’s dead.’
‘Oh, Lysander.’ For a second, Kitty’s voice faltered, ‘I’m ever so sorry, but I still can’t see you. Rannaldini’s forgiven me. I’ve got to save my marriage.’
‘What marriage? You’re married to Saddam Hussein.’
‘He’s frettening to kill hisself if I leaves ’im. Fank you for everyfink. God bless you and I’m sorry about Maggie.’
It took Lysander five dials to get Rupert’s number right.
‘Oh, Rupert, Rupert, I’m really sorry to bother you, but Kitty won’t see me any more and Rannaldini’s threatening suicide.’
‘That old trick,’ said Rupert scornfully. ‘No doubt he’ll get Kitty to run off suicide notes on her word processor for all his mistresses. I’ve just been watching the tape of the nativity play. Christ, it’s funny. I must send Flora some flowers.’
‘And Arthur’s got navicular,’ said Lysander despairingly.
‘Bring him over tomorrow. I’ll have a look.’
‘Are you sure? D’you mind having Tiny as well? She’s such a bitch, but Arthur pines without her.’
52
The only reason Lysander went to Rachel’s party was in the hope of seeing Kitty. It was another mean night. Black ice gripped the winding Rutshire roads. A savage wind chivvied woolly sepia clouds across the stars. Rachel’s barrel of rainwater was frozen solid. Although Jasmine Cottage was, if anything, colder in than out, the party gave an initial illusion of success because the twenty-five odd guests crammed into a small room, dominated by a large black grand piano, had to yell to be heard, particularly as Rachel had turned up Rannaldini’s CD of Shostakovich’s
‘Thank God you’ve come — I need spare men,’ shouted Rachel, her welcome vanishing when she saw Jack tucked inside Lysander’s coat.
‘I hope that beast won’t chase Scarlatti. Can’t he stay in the car?’
‘He’d freeze to death. Happy birthday,’ said Lysander, unable to meet her eyes he disliked her so much, as he handed over a bottle of Moet.
‘You spoil me,’ said Rachel mockingly. ‘I’ve had so much booze, anyone would think I had a drink problem.’
Lysander’s hopes that he might get one decent drink were dashed when she promptly put the Moet in the cupboard with the other bottles, saying she’d keep it for special occasions.
Your next bonk with Rannaldini, thought Lysander in disgust. He was sure that the huge brown mohair jersey and the thigh boots in softest mushroom-pink leather she was looking so good in were more presents from the Maestro. Glancing round the room he noticed an elaborate new stereo system, shelves filled with Rannaldini’s tapes and records and a piano stool exquisitely embroidered with yellow pansies. And poor darling Kitty got a filing cabinet for Christmas!
‘Hot apple punch or exotic fruit cup?’ asked Rachel, brandishing a ladle.
‘Whichever’s the strongest.’
‘People seem to prefer the cup.’ Rachel handed him a green glass of fruit salad. ‘Come and meet some of my London friends.’
Such a description presupposed some degree of glamour and sophistication, but Lysander found himself faced by a row of all-time dinginess: Anita Brookner heroines with long pale faces and longer pale cardigans desperately
